


Best Laid Plans

by RavensWing



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, F/M, I just wanted to have a fic where Frozen and Tangled intersect, Internal Conflict, Modern AU, and I refuse to apologize, and has a SECRET!?, and lots of, and messy feelings, elsa is a hard working woman who don't need no man, hans isn't evil, no magic, oh yeah - and there is, plus as much as I love the sweet fluff of Kristanna - I die for the hotness of Helsa, seriously I am only writing this because it is what I want to read okay, so pretty par for the course for me, spoiler tags past this point, this fic is basically OTP on top of OTP on top of OTP, this fic is total author wish fulfillment, tropes galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-11-18 00:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18110054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavensWing/pseuds/RavensWing
Summary: Elsa Agnar buries herself in work as head of an up-and-coming event planning team in the busy city of Arendelle both out of want and necessity to avoid her impending fate. Hans Westergaard is a young man trying to establish himself apart from the stigma of his family's name and money. What they find in each other, however, neither one ever expected. Can love be enough? [ modern au ]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross archiving this so that it doesn't disappear ever.

A swan is on the loose and hell bent on ripping off each and every custom satin seat cover at the ceremony site. As far as pre-wedding fiascos are concerned this is somewhere between The-Bouquets-Never-Arrived and Someone-Dropped-The-Cake. It is not unfixable, but it can certainly get there quickly.

The idea had put to put the supposedly docile creatures on the immense tiered fountain just before the guests arrived. They would swim and look majestic just behind the custom altar of grape leaves and peonies. The swans would provide just the right amount of fairytale here during the vineyard ceremony that was coordinated to end with a kiss just as the sun dropped to the most dramatic angle for was the idea, anyway, until one of the fine feathered bastards had figured out how to pull the pin out of the hinge on their cage and is now ruling over a white winged reign of terror.

Elsa wipes perspiration from her brow as she attempts to corner the errant bird. It would be a hell of a lot easier if there were actual corners instead of sweeping hills and a gorgeous sandstone courtyard.

"Come here you idiot." She clenches her teeth as the swan flaps its wings wide and hisses, backed up against the immaculate archway.

Where is Kristoff when she needs him? The hulking blonde man is the muscle of the group and he has a way with animals, two things she lacked. Her team is not on their mic system this early in the day which means she is stuck solo on this mission. He is well out of reach behind the grand brick winery setting up the reception tent with her sister, his wife, Anna.

Hopefully they are having better luck than she.

With a deep breath she lunges forward. The swan retaliates with its sharp beak snapping at her hand and wings beating. Elsa retreats.

"Where in the _hell_ is the swan guy?" Elsa says to herself as she stares down her feathered foe with frustration mounting.

There is a schedule to keep in order for this day to go on without a hitch and wrangling a thirty pound bird is not on any of her agendas, but that is part of being an event planner. Something always went sideways but in the past five years of events and weddings no other bump in the road has ever tried to bite her. The damn thing is in front of her - hissing - and it is clear this is not going to end without a fight.

She is about to abandon her station to go find reinforcements when she feels a presence by her left shoulder. She whips her head to the side, half expecting to be attacked by another swan, but instead she is met by the sight of a man she has never seen before.

He has a shock of flame red hair, thick and combed back off of his aristocratic brow. His firm, sloping jaw matches the curve of his long nose. Her mind flashes through all of her vendors, of the grounds crew that she had met, but she can not place this man. He must be the swan man and is thus responsible for this mess.

She makes a note on her ever running mental to-do list to give him a piece of her mind and a one-star rating on yelp once this is all sorted.

"If you distract, I will catch." His voice is smooth, low, and honestly she is in no place to bargain.

"Fine." She is not too sure how to distract a swan, but she will give it a try.

She waves her arms above her head. "Woo hoo! Swan! Over here!" She wobbles her head and serpentines her body closer to the bird. The swan looks her way, arches his obscene neck back to strike again, and she was about to jump to safety when a huge white cloth sails through the air and lands atop the confused bird. The swan guy follows the cloth and wraps the bird a bear hug, the giant wings and fierce head smothered beneath the cloth. It is clear, however, that the restraint may not hold for long.

"Cage?" He struggles with the large animal.

Before Elsa can think why it is strange that he is asking her where he put his own cages she points behind the fountain, but realizes he cannot see her. She shakes her head.

"This way."

She scurries ahead to open the cage for the errant bird and his irresponsible keeper. The man wrestles the shrouded bird into the metal box with no little effort. Elsa stands to the side, uncertain what to do but wanting to be there just in case she could help. After a minute of struggling, the swan is finally back in its cage, pin in place and the cage door butted against the stone wall of the fountain to keep any more unwanted escapes in check.

The swan guy steps back from the cage, white cloth in hand, and wipes his brow. He is breathing heavily, broad chest rising and falling from exertion beneath the thin white shirt he is wearing, and she is glad that he seems to be in good shape since wrestling that bird was no small task. Still he should have had the animal under control at all times.

She crosses her arms over her chest. The clasps of her ratty old overalls dig into her skin, but that is a price you pay when you go into battle.

"Where exactly have you been? You were supposed to sit with the birds until it was time to put them on the water and instead you are off doing heaven knows what while one of your animals tries to single-handedly ruin the ceremony site."

He looks at her like he has absolutely no idea what she is talking about. He cocks his head to the side and quirks a perfect smile that she does not like even one bit. He acts like if he just plays dumb she will forget the entire thing just because he flashes his best Sunday Social smile.

"Come again?" He says as he turns towards her.

"Your bird! It is your job to stay with them so they do not get loose. You failed. I want an explanation."

He frowns a bit into his smile like he cannot quite sort her out and takes a few steps closer. One of his thumbs hook a belt loop on his fitted jeans. The white t-shirt he wears is new, pristine, and just a little too tight in just the right places. If she weren't so furious she may have been able to acknowledge that he is attractive.

"My bird?"

He is still a few feet away, but his tightened proximity along with whatever game he is playing makes her heart speed up. He is looking at her like he sees all of her and she does not appreciate it. She does not want to be seen and least of all by an incompetent vendor.

Her calf cramps as she tries to keep herself from stepping back. "Yes. Your bird."

He looks her from the explosion of snow white hair tied up on the top of her head down to her boot covered feet. His eyes wander as if they are taking in every little detail of her appearance. She crosses her arms over her chest tighter. She knows she looks a mess, but she does not need to justify her appearance to anyone - least of all some idiot who cannot keep swans in cages.

"I don't have any birds." He looks like he is trying to keep from laughing and she has no time for this. She has five thousand dollars worth of coral satin she has to salvage.

"Fine. You don't have any birds. Great. Well I don't have time to argue moot points, so if you'll excuse me I have a job to do. Just don't expect any referrals or repeat business from me." She turns on a heel, all too eager to get out of there, and nearly runs into someone.

It is a middle aged man. His button down shirt has a swan embroidered on the pocket and is tucked into neatly pleated khakis. His head is shaved, his waist soft, and Elsa stumbles back in confusion.

"Excuse me I just -" She looks the man from head to toe, taking in his utilitarian attire, and instantly realizes her mistake. Her cheeks flame with embarrassment. "You are the swan guy."

He does not seem too thrown off by her awkward titling and extends a broad, flat hand. She shakes it with firm, crisp efficiency.

"Horatio." He introduces himself, but it hardly registers as she feels eyes boring into the back of her head. "I was just parking my van after dropping the birds. Everything all right?"

"One of your swans escaped and destroyed some of the ceremony site." She normally has no trouble dressing down errant vendors, but she is so flustered that she hears the tremor in her voice.

Horatio's eyes bulge and dart around. "Where's the bird now?"

"Back in its cage which was no small feat I can assure you." She should give credit where it is due, but the idea trips her. She hears him snort behind her, sees Horatio acknowledge him, but she keeps her focus straight ahead.

"I've been telling the boss for months we need to upgrade the cages or get some locks or something. The birds are too smart for these."

Elsa sniffs. She prides herself in picking reputable vendors, had built a reputation around it, and to find that this one had cut corners only adds insult to injury, but she is not the kind of the kill the messenger. "Well when your boss is invoiced for the damaged slipcovers I am sure he may change his mind, but for now please do not let these animals out of your sight."

"Of course. Absolutely. I'm so sorry."

Elsa does not have time for apologies. She has seat covers to fix. She shakes her head.

"If you need anything look for me or any of my team and for the love of God, please keep your birds under control."

"Yes ma'am. Again, I am sorry. I know my boss -"

But Elsa is already moving back to the ceremony site as much from her need to fix what had been broken as it is to escape the teasing grin of that insufferable red-headed man.

It isn't professional, she knows, but at this point she has no time for tact. She is too embarrassed for tact. What had he even been doing there? She had it under control. She could have handled it with her team just fine before he had come gallivanting in and -

"Are you always this charming or do the swans just bring out the more luminous parts of your personality?" She had been so busy fuming she did not hear him come up the path behind her.

She sees him fall into pace with her out of the corner of her eye. Her cheeks are on fire. She may as well eat crow while it is still warm.

"This is our first event with swans and I had never met the vendor before today although he came highly recommended." She keeps her eyes straight ahead and picks up her pace, but he matches it easily. "So you must understand my natural assumption that you were the bird handler after you managed the bird with such confidence. It was an easy mistake, plus I had everything under control. I'm sorry you felt that you had to get involved."

They round the fountain and reach the altar by the end of her rambling. She does not stop her path though. She goes immediately to the chairs that had been plucked at by the swan and stoops to investigate.

"You know," he leans his forearm on the back of the chair next to the one she is inspecting. "That may be the worst apology I have ever received."

Indignance flashes hotter than embarrassment just long enough for her to look up at him and see his wide smile and the teasing glint in his green eyes. He is joking! Her sharp retort dies on her tongue. She looks back down at her work and tugs the fabric back in place a little harder than necessary. She does not know who this man is, but she knows he is not a vendor which means he is most likely a guest and that meant she needs to appease him. People did not score invitations to weddings that cost a cool million by being trailer trash.

She sucks in a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm a little preoccupied. Events like these are a complicated production and I get a little tunnel focused. It was a misunderstanding and I apologize."

She expects a thank you, some sort of snarky comment or indication that she is off the hook, but none come. Instead:

"You're tense."

"Excuse me?" She scoots over to appraise and straighten the next chair cover, straightening the gaudy contrasting gold satin bow, trying to focus on work instead of how intently she knows he is watching her every move.

"The muscles in your shoulders look tight enough to snap." He pushes up from his position to come alongside her and straighten askew seat covers as she is doing. She almost snaps at him to stop, but holds her tongue when she sees the care he takes with the posh fabric. His eyes catch hers. "What do you do to relax? _Do_ you ever relax?"

It is a presumptive questions for someone who had only known her for five minutes. She normally shuts down any kind of nonprofessional inquiry from strangers, especially of the attractive male variety. She does not have time for that and not just because she was busy running a flourishing event planning company. She just did not have time. She will never have time, but she had been so rude and he is being so kind that she supposes she owes him this.

"I relax." Her mouth twitches at the playful disbelief she finds in his face.

"Really?" He flicks one of his eyebrows as thick and red as the hair on his head. "Doing what?"

"I like to read."

"What do you read?"

They are moving down the mussed row together now, working around each other to straighten the mess. She tries not to admire the attention he pays to the details of the corners, the crease of the bow, but she finds no flaw in the chair cover when is done with it. She runs a smoothing hand over the seat and gives an extra tug regardless.

She finds herself opening up to his questions, his warmth. It feels nice, nicer than she wants to admit, to bask in the attention. It tingles bright and sparkling beneath her skin. She forgets her anger, her embarrassment, in the wake of pleasant conversation with a perfect stranger.

"Non-fiction mostly. Autobiographies, histories, industry papers - you know - that sort of thing."

He gives a low chuckle. "No wonder you are so tense. None of those seem too relaxing."

She tries not to become defensive. "They can be."

"What about TV?"

Elsa thinks of the shows she watches with Anna. They are mostly reality fare revolving around weddings. Or if Kristoff has control of the remote the TV normally finds some sort of sporting match. She, however, never turns on the TV of her own accord.

She shrugs.

"Bubble baths?"

She snaps: "Never."

He pauses his work to look at her but she keeps going. She had been too emphatic in her denial.

"Never?"

She tries to sound as casual as she can. "They just aren't for me."

"Huh. Fair enough." She can hear the curiosity in his agreement. She cannot blame him. What normal person did not enjoy bubble baths? But she is not normal.

"What about you?" She deflects before he can ask her any follow up questions. "What do you do to relax?"

"Sailing." He does not hesitate. "It is my favorite thing to go out on a crisp morning and spend the whole day out out on the water. You have never seen a sunset until you see it on the open sea. The sun is so huge it looks like it will come down and set the world on fire, but somehow it slips past us and shows us the stars instead. It takes your breath away."

She does not notice that she stops her work to watch him talk. He sounds so - well - human. The conviction in his voice, the life, stirs something in her. He sounds so passionate, so open, so free and she wants - oh. It does not matter what she wants. She will never have it no matter how hard she works.

She turns back to straightening.

"That sounds nice." She offers, upset with herself for allowing her mind to wander to impossible things.

"Have you ever been sailing?"

She shakes her head.

"You should come out with me then. Next weekend. I'm going out with a group of friends for a day cruise. It is always a great time. You should join us."

It does sound like a great time, but she cannot risk it. There are too many ways it can go sour, too many chances for attachment to form where it should not.

"I have to work."

"Ah. Being an event planner probably kills most opportunities for weekend get-togethers."

"I don't mind. I love my job."

"Killer swans and all?"

She smiles at that, appreciating his wit. "Yes. Even then."

"You have a nice smile."

The compliment catches her off guard. Her hands tighten on the fabric she is adjusting and the smile is gone. She is not one who gets compliments. She does not want them, can not want them. It is too complicated. Her mind races to get in front of the rushing heat she feels at his praise.

She deflects, changing the subject. "You really seemed to know what to do with that bird."

"I watched a lot of Animal Planet as a kid." He shrugs and she has to make an effort not to smile at that. "Plus I grew up with a lot of brothers so I don't think there was ever a day of my childhood that did not involve wrestling something bigger and meaner than me."

"How many brothers did you have?"

"Twelve."

Her mind goes blank for an instant and she looks at him with wide eyes and gaping mouth. He gets a spark of mischief in his eye that tells her he is used to the shock of others at this particular junction.

"I could say quite a few things about my father, but one thing I will say is that Frederik Westergaard does nothing halfway."

Her mind grinds to a halt upon revelation. "Frederik Westergaard. As in Frederik Westergaard the hotel tycoon? He is your father?"

He grimaces a bit at her appraisal. "Ah. So you have heard of him."

Of course she has. Everyone in Arendelle and probably over the known world has stayed in a Westergaard hotel at some point in their life. His empire is limitless, his wealth unimaginable, and here is his son straightening chair covers next to her. Even worse - she had yelled at him. She is mortified. If he told his friends she could be blackballed from event planning in the upper echelons for the rest of her life - no matter how short it may be.

"You're a Westergaard." She wants to go under a rock and hide for the rest of the night.

"I'm also a Gemini and a groomsman in this wedding, but most people call me Hans."

She is not most people. She could not even afford the dirt off the bottom of his shoes.

Mercifully they finish the straightening then and she is able to stand and put some distance between them. Maybe he will not see how pink she knows her ears are with embarrassment.

"Well thank you so much for your help." She wipes shaking hands down the front of her overalls (she _would_ meet a Westergaard while wearing overalls) and stares at the ground next to his feet. "But I have to get inside now."

No real damage had been done to the seats. A lot had just been knocked askew and needed to be righted. There was a small tear in one seam, but she had a needle and thread in her emergency bag inside the winery that could be used to fix that in no time flat. She just needs to get it, to get away from him and her embarrassment. Wait until Anna hears about this.

"So do I." He walks towards her and offers his arm. "Let me walk you up."

She thinks to refuse. It would not be professional to take the arm of a guest, but that will no doubt offend him and since she has already done that enough for her entire lifetime…. Gingerly she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, trying to touch as little of the smooth, firm skin of his bicep as possible. He is warmer than she expected, warmer than she feels like someone should be. He pulls his arm in against his side and sets a leisurely pace up out of the courtyard to the sidewalk leading to the winery.

It is only one hundred yards away, but at this pace it will take them the better part of a year to get anywhere. She tries to speed them up, but he does not allow it. They will go at his pace.

"Do you have a name?" He asks as he frustrates her every attempt to go faster.

"Elsa. Elsa Agnar." She thinks how funny it is to have introductions this far into the conversation. If only she had known who he was at the start of this mess she would have steered the entire thing a better direction.

"Well Elsa Agnar, it is my complete and total pleasure to make your acquaintance."

She looks up at him them and expects to see the teasing expression that is already becoming so familiar in reference to him, but instead she only finds sincerity, warmth. His green eyes roam her face, his mouth sets a soft smile, and he is close. Too close. She looks back at the path in front of them.

"Even if I yelled at you?"

"Especially since you yelled at me." She hears his sincerity and wonders at it. "Once people find out who I am - or rather who I am related to - well let's just say I do not get yelled at very often. It was refreshing."

She snorts. "You should go into event planning then. People are always yelling at you or your yelling at someone. There is a lot of yelling."

"Ah. If I had known I was getting a professional grade scolding I would have paid closer attention. To be honest I was a little distracted through all of it."

"Distracted? How?"

"I can't tell you." His response is so unexpected, his voice suddenly so solemn, that she is forced to look up at him again. For once, he is not looking back. "It would make you uncomfortable."

She does not tell him that she is already as uncomfortable as she has ever been. She looks forward again and tries to smooth her ruffled nerves.

"Fine. Don't then."

"You give up too easily." His voice is teasing again. He changes so quickly it makes her head spin. "It isn't a bad reason. It is a good reason." He leans in a bit and lowers his voice to whisper in her ear. "But I have a feeling that you would prefer a bad reason over a good reason. Now why is that?"

He stands back up but not before he lingered a moment longer than he needed to, his nose practically buried in her hair, his breath tickling the sensitive shell of her ear. It seems that blushing is to be her permanent state of being with him around.

"Criticism, if constructive, is how one grows." She dodges.

"And compliments?" His voice stays soft. "Can any good can come of those?"

They are close to the main building now. Its towering brick structure looming nearer and nearer with each step. If only they could reach it now so she can avoid these questions that make her heart race.

"I suppose - at the right time and for the right reason."

"So, hypothetically, if I told you now that I was distracted because I found you to be incredibly attractive would that pass your test of right time, right reason?"

She has no idea how they have gotten here in this conversation. She has no idea how she has gotten here at all. Ten minutes ago she was battling a swan and now she is being charmed by a man who she has no business talking to regardless of rank or station.

"I don't think there is ever a right time or reason for that." She says, but there is a part of her deep in her chest that wishes those words were not true.

"Then I suppose we will just have to agree to disagree on that point because I think things of beauty are worthy of praise."

They climb the two shallow steps that lead up to a grand wooden door. It is propped open now to allow easy flow as vendors and staff dart in and out at regular intervals. As they reach the threshold she tries to extract her hand from his arm, but he grabs it and turns his body into hers. The heat in his eyes hits her instantly. It echoes the warmth of his skin. How is it possible for one person to be so warm?

"Hold on."

He keeps hold of her hand with one of his while the other reaches for the top of her head. She flinches back, but he keeps her close. The tips of his finger brush the edge of her hairline and she feels the shiver of it run along her skin before he retracts both of his hands.

"You had this in your hair." He twirls a single feather between the tips of two long, elegant fingers. "Blow it away and make a wish."

She looks at his face, back to the feather, and then back up to his face. She sees his expectancy. She sees his interest. She had felt it in his touch, had felt her reaction to it, and realizes this has gone too far.

"It doesn't work like that. You can't wish on feathers." She takes a step back. The door frame pushes into her spine as she pulls a fortifying breath.

"Sure it does." He seems unfazed by her retreat. "You can make a wish whenever you want, this just makes it more fun."

"I don't make wishes."

"Then I'll make one for you."

He closes his eyes for a moment and she thinks of running, but he is where she needs to be. She will have to wait for him to go. Then he puckers the lips of his wide, generous mouth, and blows the feather into the air. It fluttered to the ground between their feet and he look back at her again. His eyes are bright and warm.

"Do you want to know what I wished for?" His voice takes on a low, silky tone that sends a rumbling through her. _Trouble._

"You aren't supposed to tell me. It won't come true."

"You are awfully legalistic about wishes for someone who doesn't make them."

She is going to say something when he steps into her again, as close as he was before, and she has nowhere to go. The cool wood of the door frame is unyielding. He makes no move to touch her, but her skin tingles everywhere at the possibility. It is unnerving.

"I wished for just the right words to get you to say 'yes' to seeing me again after today." He licks his lips, watching her face intently.

Her heart hammers against her ribs. She tries to keep it professional. "I'm sure we will run into each other again at other events my team and I plan."

"I'm asking for a date." He smiles as he calls her bluff. "We could grab drinks, or dinner. We could take my boat down to Corona for the day. There is a bakery there with pastries that melt in your mouth the second they touch your tongue and an old theater that has been renovated into the most beautiful bookstore you've ever seen. I'd love to show it to you."

The potential sings through her. It could happen. It could be amazing. It could be so many things if only she were able to accept. She takes a deep breath, unable to look away from his pleading gaze.

"I don't go on dates." Her voice comes out soft, unconvincing, and she mentally kicks herself.

He cocks his head to one side, face puzzled. "Why not?"

There is not enough time for a real explanation, not that she will give it anyway. So she goes for her default. "I like to be alone."

He actually laughs at that one. The reaction is so unexpected it startles her. Everything about this man is surprising and that sets her on edge, off balance. He puts one hand above her head and _leans in_.

"No one likes to be alone."

"I do."

His smiles takes on a new edge, like a locksmith enjoying the process of tripping tumblers.

"You keep telling yourself that, but I'm going to prove you wrong."

There is a burst of light and energy from the entry hall and Elsa's eyes tear to the distraction.

"Elsa! There you are - " It is Anna, red braid swinging around her narrow shoulders, but she stops the moment she processes the tableau in front of her. Her blue eyes go wide. "Uh - I um - Kristoff and I - uh - wow. Okay. We need help with something in the tent. Okay?"

Elsa can read every racing thought on her sister's flustered face. They mirror her own. She glances back to Hans to find that he is no longer leaning, but is still too close. His eyes still spark a challenge that tells her that even if she leaves now - this is far from over. She slips past him towards her sister.

"If you'll excuse me." She forces the words out past the lump in her throat. "The groom's room is down the hall to the right."

Her legs shake as she approaches her sister, can feel his eyes on her retreating back, and hears him chuckle. She grabs Anna's arm as she passes and steers her sister around the corner and out of his sight. Still his voice follows her as she tries to make her way to the reception tent and the clean, clear sanity of work.

"Save a dance for me tonight, will you?"


	2. Chapter 2

The sisters work their way down through the long hallway, feet clapping on the hardwood floor, towards the large catering kitchen that led to the reception tent. Elsa keeps hold of Anna's as much to keep her on task as to keep herself upright. It takes every bit of her concentration to do anything but think about Hans Westergaard and Anna is not helping.

"So - uh - who was that?" she asks as soon as they are out of earshot.

Elsa needs to get through this day then maybe tomorrow over that anticipated bottle of chardonnay she can tell her sister about the bizarre ten minutes. So she says: "A groomsman."

"Wow. If the rest of the bridal party is that good looking then this wedding is basically going to be a GQ shoot."

"Anna!"

"What? I'm married, not dead. What'd the super hot groomsman want? Why was he all leany?"

They pass through the kitchen. Pots, pans, trays, bodies, and food fill the space with infectious energy. The chef, Tiana Chase, flits like a butterfly from station to station. Her voice is disproportionately large for her small body and it resonates off of the marble and stainless steel that makes up the room.

"I said mince not dice! Let me taste the broth…! More parsley…!"

E&A Events has worked with Tiana dozens of times. Elsa has complete confidence in the chef's ability to deliver exactly what the client desires. She normally stays out of the way and lets Tiana work her kitchen voodoo but normally she is not trying to get out of a conversation she would rather not have.

"Chef Tiana!" Elsa breaks away from her sister. "How is everything? Is the kitchen space sufficient? Do you need anything?"

Tiana honey-brown eyes blink at the interruption and looks Elsa from head to toe and back again. She puts one hand on her slim hip.

"Now I'm doing just fine, but you look like you swallowed a frog."

Elsa feels her eyes go wide. "No I'm fine. I'm fine, fine, fine. Just checking on you."

Tiana looks from Elsa to where Anna stands behind her shoulder. "Get Miss Queen Bee outta my kitchen and get her some water or something before she faints clean away."

And with a pivot so graceful a ballerina would swoon, Tiana twirls back to her work leaving Elsa high and dry. This time Anna catches Elsa's arm and leads her away.

"What was that about?" Anna asks as she pushes open the door to the door that feeds immediately into the reception tent.

"I was just checking on the food."

"But you never check on the food when it is Tiana. That is why we recommend her so highly." Anna leads then out from behind where the bar is carefully situated to hide the service door.

"Well maybe we should start checking on her, just in case. It is our business on the line and if she starts turning out low quality food -" they cross the immense dance floor towards heading to where Kristoff waits past a sea of tables.

"Tiana isn't going to do that. It is her name at stake, too." Anna pauses for a moment and Elsa offers nothing. "We are seriously not going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" she feigns an air of indifference even as her heart races.

"Oh I don't know. Maybe how tall, red, and handsome had you backed into a door and looked like he was going to eat you alive."

Anna's description brings fresh fire to her cheeks. "You're delusional."

They weave through between tables. Elsa checks each centerpiece along the way.

"Oh really? Because I think the last time I saw someone lean like that I was watching _The Notebook."_

"You're being ridiculous."

"Then why is your face bright red?"

They are close enough to Kristoff now that he comes over to meet them. His broad shoulders strain under the worn, work t-shirt. His thick blonde hair falls shaggy over deep set brown eyes. Elsa suppresses a motherly instinct to sweep it back off of his forehead.

"What's going on? I send you to get Elsa and you take the scenic route?" His voice holds a hint of annoyance as he loops his arm around Anna's waist and drops a kiss on her forehead.

Anna nestles into her husband's side. It is easy, natural, comfortable - everything that her conversation with Hans hadn't been. If ever there comes a chance where she could consider looking for someone to share her life, she wants what Anna has with Kristoff. She has had enough unpredictability and drama for her entire life, and will have more but not by her choice.

"Sorry." Anna cranes her neck back to look up at her giant of a husband. "Elsa was waylaid by a hungry groomsman."

Kristoff's eyebrows shoot up. He catches every nuance of his wife's voice like code, but so does Elsa. This day is going to be interminable.

"You okay? You need me to talk to the guy?" His posture takes on that of a protective older brother, but Elsa shakes her head.

"Anna's exaggerating. There is nothing to talk about." She gives her sister a pointed look. "We have work to do. What's up?"

Kristoff settles back on his heels, but Elsa knows he will jump into action if the need ever arose. She, however, is good at fighting her own battles. She has to be.

"We need your opinion on how to run the cables for the lights." He gestures to the hundreds of strands of edison bulbs that run up to the highest point of the pitched canopy. When they are lit they will make the tent glow in golden relief. "We've come up on a bit of roadblock."

"Then let's unblock it, shall we?"

Kristoff led the way, Anna at his side, and the three of them went to the edge of the tent. For the moment all conversation revolving around Hans is forgotten and she is glad of it. She is never happier than when her mind has a puzzle to solve, a problem to resolve, and she zeroes in on it.

Much of the remaining hours leading up to the ceremony is much of the same. She helps and organizes and fixes. She mends the ripped seat cover with a neat whipstitch. She measures the distance between the each table and place setting in the reception tent, ordering correction when she found fault. She greets and directs vendors. She whisks the bride and her entourage back to the bride's room (down the opposite hall of the groom's room) and fetches them chilled champagne as they dress. She gives laminated, duplicate copies of the requested shot list to the photographer and her assistants. She orders and organizes until it is one hour before the ceremony and everything is flawless.

She is watching from the landing of winery as Horatio releases the swans onto the fountain when Anna finds her again.

"The ice sculpture is in the walk-in. Kristoff and Olaf will set it on your signal. We found the mother-of-the-bride's missing earring in the bottom of a champagne flute and are we really not going to talk about it?"

Elsa has barely managed to go about her work today without constantly looking over her shoulder for Hans to pop back up and insert himself into whatever task she found herself immersed in at the moment. She counts it a victory. She is not about to compromise that victory by talking about it.

Elsa says: "We need to get dressed."

She turns on her heel and heads inside. She hears her sister follow with a groan. They both go to a small office that the winery director occupies during the week where their changes of clothes await. Elsa cannot get out of her overalls and sweat drenched t-shirt fast enough. They peel off of her like a second skin. She goes to the bag that Anna affectionately named The Portable Drugstore and digs out her clean underwear and her industrial size pack of body refreshing wipes. Anna and Elsa work in tandem to clean up and redress. A quarter of the wipes are gone by the time they are ready to don fresh underware.

"I could kiss the person who invented these things." Anna said as she tossed her last wipe into the desk waste basket and reaches for her simple emerald green cocktail dress. "They are almost as genius as sandwiches."

Elsa smiles at that. Her sister's outlook on life never fails to amuse her. She grabs a hairbrush and dry shampoo from The Portable Drugstore and sets to work on the mess of her hair. Anna grabs the deodorant. Elsa tugs through tangles. Anna zips her dress. Elsa hands Anna the hairbrush and they switch roles. Now Elsa dresses and Anna dresses her own hair. They have done this so many times now it runs like a clock.

Elsa slips her navy tunic over her head and lets its boxy shape fall down over her hips to hit just below her knees. She pulls her snow white hair over her shoulder and works it into a quick braid before twisting it at the nape of her neck and pinning it tight. She puts her work boots aside to don more delicate silver ballet slippers. She finishes her outfit with a delicate silver locket on a plain silver chain around her slender throat.

Anna finishes pinning her two braids across the top of her head just as Elsa clasps her necklace.

"How do I look?" Anna twirls. Her full skirt fans out around her knees in a playful fashion from its anchored spot at the tailored waist. The yoke neckline is demure and professional.

"You look wonderful." Elsa reaches out and smooths a stray hair back from her forehead.

"You look wonderful-er." Anna giggles. "I know - that is not a word. You don't have to tell me."

"Thank you. Let's get everyone on the system and do our precheck then."

Elsa goes to a black roller bag separate from The Portable Drugstore and opens it. Inside are six radio headsets and transmitter packs all tucked neatly into their own foam- lined crevice. She pulls out one for herself and her sister. Elsa hands the mic set to Anna and goes about hooking up, turning on, checking, rechecking, and dropping the mic into the tunic's pocket. Anna should be doing the same, but instead fiddles with the head piece and looks at her hands.

"What is it? Did we forget something?" Elsa feels her heart drop. What could they have forgotten?

"No it's just -" Anna pauses and takes a deep breath.

"What is it?" Elsa sees words hanging silent on her sister's lips. "Anna?"

Anna looks at her, blue eyes meeting, and bites her lip. "It's just - I know you don't like talking about this and I know you've made your choices because of your - uh - your thing," she makes a nervous, fluttering gesture towards her head. "And I respect that. I do. But you know can always make a new choice, right?"

Elsa's spine goes stiff. "Of course I know that."

"Okay it's just sometimes I think because of…" Anna stops herself and looks back at her hands. "I just want you to be as happy as possible and if that means a change then I want you to know I support that."

Elsa feels the pang sadness that accompanies Anna's affection. Every part of her life is tinged with that sadness. It's insidious nature creeps into each corner and paints her edges blue.

"Thank you," Elsa keeps her voice even despite the tremor inside of her. "But nothing has changed. Nothing is ever going to change."

She cannot say she has made peace with that fact, but she has accepted it.

Anna nods and turns her transmitter on and off. "But if you wanted to -"

"I don't."

Anna sniffles and Elsa knows she is trying not to cry. This is why she hates talking about this,

"Hey now. None of that." Elsa reaches out and takes her sister's hands in her own. "I'm here and I have more than enough happiness in my life." Anna nods. Elsa squeezes her hands. "Now enough of this. We have work to do."

Elsa helps Anna with her mic and fetches another from the bag. She hands it to her sister. "For Kristoff."

Then she collects the other three and sets off to find the rest of her team partially out of need to keep this day on track but also because she cannot have that conversation again. Every time Anna senses that someone may be sniffing around Elsa, trying to feel her out, Anna gives the same awkward line about choices and change. Elsa knows she is only trying to help, but it does not. All it does is remind her of the things that she will never have (as if weddings did not do that already).

She starts down the hall towards the bride's room where she knows she will find Rapunzel. Besides having an absolutely unforgettable name, Rapunzel Fitzherbert is a graphics and web design whiz and general Jane-of-all-trades at the A&E Events offices, but on the day of weddings like this Rapunzel is the handler of all things bride and bridesmaid. Her bubbly, empathetic personality makes her the perfect fit for the role.

Elsa knocks on the heavy mahogany wood door to the bride's room before turning the handle and letting herself in. The room is an explosion of bags, beautiful equipment, and tulle. The bride is being laced into an elaborate mermaid-cut gown by her six bridesmaids, mother, in the center of it all - Rapunzel.

"How's that Ariel?" Rapunzel ask as she works her way down the back "Too tight?"

"We should make it tighter. You don't want it slipping all night." A bridesmaid with dark hair says.

"No. She has to breathe! You want her passing out during the ceremony?" A blonde bridesmaid replies.

"Ariel is the one in the dress. Let's let her make the decision." It's the bride's mother, Athena. Elsa had met her during the planning process and spent quite a bit of time with her. The resemblance between her and her youngest daughter is mind boggling. "Ariel sweetheart, how does the dress feel?"

Ariel runs her hands down the front of the dress, fingertips tracing delicate lace and sparkle, and looks at herself in the full length mirror in front of her. Her blue eyes are luminous in the reflection. Her red hair is curled and styled to spill over her right shoulder like a firey waterfall. Every inch of her petite body radiates excitement, warmth, and joy.

"It feels wonderful." She is a bit breathless, but everyone can tell it is not from the laces being too tight.

Rapunzel has kept working through all of this and is at the bottom of the dress by the time Ariel has the chance to chime in. "All right then." She says as she ties and tucks the remaining laces. "Then you, Miss Bride, are all dressed and ready to get hitched."

Rapunzel stands from where she had knelt behind the bride and gets out of the way as the bride is attacked by squealing bridesmaids and selfie requests. She comes over to Elsa grinning ear to ear in a way that makes her look ten years old. Her cropped brown hair flips out at strange angles but Elsa knows better than to try to smooth it. Rapunzel is weird about her hair.

"Is it that time already?" Rapunzel quips as she takes her mic and clips the transmitter to the belt of her lavender sundress.

"It is." Elsa smiles as Rapunzel clicks the battery pack on and off exactly three times. Rapunzel is the only member of the team even close to being as OCD as Elsa is and she feels kinship in that. "You have everything under control here?"

The infectiously huge smile is back. "Absolutely."

"All right then. Stay live. I just have to find your husband and Olaf and to mic up and then this ship is ready to sail. The first guests should be arriving any minute."

Elsa was going to wish Ariel the best of everything before slipping out to finish her mission with Rapunzel intercepts her. The tiny brunette steps in close and lowers her voice.

"Eugene is in the groom's room with _you-know-who_."

Oh Elsa knows exactly who Rapunzel means. Anna is not one for keeping her mouth shut.

"Thank you." Elsa leaves without another word.

Of course _he_ is in the groom's room. He is a groomsman. She knows that. She does not need a committee directing her in regards to who is where and when. She already knows that. It is her job to know that and she is excellent at her job.

Besides, whatever Anna thinks she saw earlier is no doubt a gross exaggeration of what actually happened. Honestly she is fairly certain her own mind has embellished those ten minutes exponentially. By now he has probably forgotten all about her and they are both better for it. After all he is nothing but a complication and complications waste time. Time is valuable and she will not throw away whatever amount she has to someone who probably has models on speed dial while she - well. That is entirely different matter.

It is only a minute walk from the bride's room to the groom's, but by the time she gets there is she steaming and simmer with anger, anxiety, and anticipation. She stands in front of the door just as she had at the bride's room. She does not allow herself to hesitate. There is no reason to hesitate. He is not a reason to hesitate.

She raps her knuckles on the wood and waits.

"What's the password?" She hears muffled laughter from behind the door. The carefree sound of it would normally please her - the happiness a sign that the event is going smoothly - but now it just grates.

"Eugene, it's me." She barely has the words out when the door snaps open but it is not Eugene standing there. It is _him_.

If she had ever even maybe considered that he could have been attractive in the jeans and t-shirt he wore earlier then he is absolutely staggering in his classic tuxedo. He is a vision of tailored lines and attention to detail. He auburn hair, worn longer on top than the sides, is combed back to follow its natural wave. The green of his eyes sparkle at the sight of her.

"Are you here to make my wish come true?" He tucks his shoulder into the doorframe and crosses his arms with a smirk.

Her cheeks flame instantly, heart goes into overdrive, but she keeps her eyes and voice cool. "I'm here to give Eugene his mic. Will you have him come out please?"

"He actually just stepped out. Seems that he makes the best old fashioned in town and is going to prove it." He is doing that thing again that makes her feel like he sees _all_ of her. She feels her body warm under his attention. "It could be fun. You should stick around."

Elsa knows all about Eugene's exceptional drink mixing skills. She also knows that drinking with this man in front of her will be nothing less than dangerous. She needs all of her wits about her.

"Thank you, but no." She needs to take evasive action. "I need to find Eugene. If you'll excuse me."

She turns to leave but he slips out into the hall and blocks her path.

"Stay." There is something so deeply male in the way he stands, the way he looks at her, that sets her on edge.

She squares her shoulders. "I can't."

"You can. You should." He says. "Haven't you ever heard that the best way to find someone who is missing is to stay in one spot?"

She has heard that. She knows the most efficient thing to do is to stay and wait for Eugene. Eugene will not abandon his post for long. He will return and she will give him what he needs and it will be simple, but she cannot stay because Hans gives her a smile that makes her mouth go dry and efficiency is the last thing on her mind.

She can hear the men in the groom's room laughing, can smell the scent of expensive cigars. The door is still open. She wonders if any of them are spying on this hallway rendezvous and her embarrassment heightens.

"Then I'll just give this to you and you can make sure he gets it when he returns. Problem solved." She extends the pack in his direction and he sobers.

"But that doesn't solve _my_ problem." He inches closer and she stiffens but stays rooted to her spot.

"And what is that?" She asks before she can stop herself.

"I still haven't come up with a way to convince you to go on a date with me."

He rocks forward on his toes, hand in his pockets, and it should have felt scammy. She has been hit on by men at events before. She knows how this should go, but this is different. He seems sincere, and that is disarming.

"I already told you. I don't date." It comes out about as convincing as it did the first time.

"Why?" He tilts his head to the side.

"I just don't."

"Are you seeing someone?" He asks and she knows she should not answer. She has no reason to answer. It is none of his business, but she shakes her head anyway.

"No."

"Married?"

"No."

"I'm not barking up the wrong tree, am I?" He grins and she blushes.

"Mister Westergaard -" The questions are coming too quickly, flustering her.

"Hans. Please." His voice is soft, _melting_ , and she cannot help the chill that runs down her spine at the familiarity.

She shakes her head once more, but this time she cannot get the word out. The way he is looking at her makes her heart jump into her throat. He reaches out one hand slowly as if she is an animal who might spook. His eyes drop to her neck as his finger hooks the delicate chain at her throat and runs it till he catches her locket between his thumb and forefinger. She stands perfectly still, not even daring to breathe as he fingers her most cherished piece of jewelry.

"This is beautiful." His voice stays low as he brings unblinking eyes back up to hers. "It makes me want to know what's on the inside."

She gets the distinct impression that he is not referring to the locket anymore. She needs to say something, do something, before this meeting spirals even further from her control but she is paralyzed.

"Elsa. Please."

He runs his finger back up along the chain, the backs of his knuckles brushing the thin skin of her throat just above where her pulse thrums painfully. The touch sends a shudder through her entire body and she steps back with a gasp. She is horrified at how her body responds to his. She is one second away from running in terror when they are interrupted.

"Is everything all right here?" It is Eugene.

His hands are full of a tray of all the accoutrements needed to make a ridiculous amount of Old Fashioneds. His hazel eyes are watchful as he comes to put himself between Elsa and Hans in a way that could have been ostensive, but as with everything he does it is tempered with smooth charm. Elsa can tell by the way he looks at her that either Anna or Rapunzel had filled him in all on the sordid details of whatever Anna thought she saw. This is only going to add more fuel to a fire Elsa is willing to do anything to put out.

"Everything is fine." Elsa grabs any remaining part of her dignity that lays shredded at her feet. "Here is your mic. It is time to go live." She puts Eugene's set on his tray, careful to not upset any of the contents, and gives him a tight smile.

Then without another word she spins on her heel and walks away. She does not look back once, but she knows that his eyes stay on her back until she is out of sight.


	3. Chapter 3

The ceremony is underway before she sees him again.

He stands as the fourth of six in the line of groomsmen. His red hair matches the bride's better than the groom's jet black coif. It catches the light of the setting sun like a flame and she remembers the warmth of his skin. Even at twenty yards away she can still feel the burn of her skin at the brush of his fingers at her temple, her throat. The burn intensifies when he finds her eyes across the distance and holds them until she forces herself to look away and doesn't dare look at him for the rest of the ceremony which, thankfully, goes off without a hitch. Even the swans behave and before Elsa knows it - it is over.

Ten months of stressful planning, obsessing over details, of consults and vendor negotiations is released in a sigh at the moment the officiant pronounces the couple man and wife. Even though there is the entire reception and after-party to get through the fact that the ceremony went well is a good omen and she needs that. She needs something to get her through the rest of the night with _him_ prowling in the background.

"Ceremony is over. Where are we with the ice sculpture?" Elsa presses a button on her mic wire and speaks low but clear into the device.

"Set and ready. Everything's a go back here." Kristoff responds over the wire.

"Fantastic. We're moving guests over now. Tell the MC it is forty-five minutes till we announce the bridal party, please. We have pictures. Rapunzel?"

"On it!" The spunky brunette comes over the channel. "Just grabbing lipstick and mascara."

Along with web design Rapunzel was a whiz when it came to makeup and always did touch ups after the emotions of the ceremony did their damage. She can have a ten bridesmaids ready to go in as many minutes.

"Thanks Rapunzel. Anna is everything set for cocktail hour?"

"Of course. Calm down."

Elsa would normally smile at her sister's teasing and remember that calming down is actually an excellent idea, but not today. She cannot let her guard down even for an instant. She has already made that mistake today and she is still scrambling to pick up the defenses Hans had managed to topple with the slightest bit of attention.

She forces her mind off of him however and brings her thoughts to the task at hand. The recessional is underway and she need to whisk the bride and groom off to sign their marriage license before the photographer can snag them for pictures. She heads back up to the winery doors and reaches into the smaller version of The Portable Drugstore that hangs over one shoulder. She withdraws a manilla envelope just as she reaches the beaming bride and groom.

"May I be the first to congratulate you both." Elsa greets them with a sincere smile, but she can tell the couple cannot see anything but each other. She turns to the short officiant who comes up behind them and hands over the envelope. "Let's make this thing legal, shall we?"

She leads them all into the four story brick building and into one of the lavishly decorated parlors the winery had furnished as one of many little hideaways on the massive estate. The dark wood and white walls that run through the entire place offer the parlor an antique feel that is only heightened by the inlaid wooden furniture and lush fabrics. Daguerreotype photos of stoic couples hang on the walls in ornate gold frames as if to emphasize the solemnity of the event.

The officiant sits in a straight backed wooden chair padded with scarlet cushions at a low table and gestures for the bride and groom to join him in matching seats. He pulls the marriage certificate from the folder in withered old hands and surveys the room.

"Where are the witnesses?" He blinks up at Elsa from behind round spectacles and Elsa is horrified.

In her hurry to avoid Hans she had forgotten to bring the witnesses.

"Of course. Absolutely. I'll be right back." Elsa drops the mini-Portable Drugstore and is already halfway out the door, gripping at her mic. The second she is out in the hall and out of earshot of the trio inside she clicks her feed on live. "I need witnesses. Rapunzel please send in Max and Andrina STAT. Tell them to look for me."

The three seconds of silence before Rapunzel responds stretches for eternity.

"You got it! Two are on their way." Elsa can practically hear the tube of mascara clenched in Rapunzel's teeth, but knows the small woman will not let her down.

She darts out to the foyer, doing her best to not charge the door and drag whoever is closest in to sign the marriage license. She is furious that she allowed herself to become so frazzled.

She sees movement at the door and look in that direction. It is not the witnesses as she hoped. It is _him_.

The setting sun hits him from behind outlining him with a fiery glow. It makes her realize the breadth of his shoulders, the slimness of his waist and hips. Even though his front is in deep shadow she can tell he is smiling.

"We really must keep meeting like this." He says the opposite of what she is thinking.

"Have you seen Max? Andrina?" She blurts as he walks in her direction. She pulls herself tall as he approaches.

"They're heading this way. Might be a second, though." As he comes closer the harsh relief of the setting sun lessens and she can see his smirk more clearly. "It seems if Max has his way you may be planning his and Andrina's wedding next."

He is teasing. She knows this. She could laugh or smile. She could respond with a witty comeback, but his proximity take up almost her entire power of thought so she gives a curt nod.

"Yes. Well. Could you send them this way when you have a chance?" She gestures down the hall with one hand, edging that direction herself in a way she hopes is subtle.

"I wish I could, but I am fetching a comb for the groom." He cocks his head to the side. "But I could be persuaded to be your errand boy instead."

She can sense where this is going and tries to deflect. "I don't think we could afford you on payroll."

He laughs at this, deep and real, and the sound of it shakes through her like thunder.

"The promise of your company would be more than enough compensation." His smile turns from jovial to something wolfish and she realizes then that he is moving in counterpoint to her slow evasion. "So how about it? Two witnesses for the price of one date?"

"I already told you." She matches his steady gaze, hoping against hope that he will not see how her defenses are trembling. "I don't go on dates."

His smile widens. "Well that's a shame." He does not move in but she swears he is closer now somehow. "Because if going on a date with you is one bit as fun as trying to get you to go on one then I think I could die happy."

Then he winks at her - _winks_ at _her_ \- turns and goes down the opposite hall towards the groom's room. The abruptness of it makes her head spin. She presses one hand flat against the fluttering in her stomach and tries to breathe. Had he really winked at her? Did people do that? Why would he do that? For one instant she forgets everything about herself and why she is here and wants to charge after him and demand - well - she does not know what exactly, but the fire in her stomach balks at his cheekiness.

She does not like the burn that settles in the base of her belly. The raging pool of conflicting emotions are destroying her focus and she will not have it. They make her feel like she is spiraling out of control, and she cannot abide that. Not today, not ever. She is stronger than this.

She sets like a shot outside, grasping for something concrete to wrap her fingers around. She sees Andrina and Max giggling and walking up the pathway at a pace that suggests they have nowhere to be. Elsa goes down the path to meet them and has to remind herself to smile and be polite as she fetches the shaggy haired best man and the blonde maid of honor. It is not their fault that she cannot seem to keep the butterflies out of her stomach.

She is already feeling more normal at having a task to complete. Each step she takes towards the witnesses and then back to the parlor with them is stabilizing. Watching them sign the marriage certificate and then returned the four of them to Rapunzel and the photographer is stabilizing. Going back to the kitchen and seeing Tiana's kitchen work with a frantic but efficient measure is stabilizing. The world is how it should be in these moment. The earth stops spinning beneath her and she can almost take her sister's advice to calm down.

Elsa dives into that feeling. She throws every ounce of herself into it and with every flash she catches of him hovering in the corner of her mind she is able to press him aside with whatever task she has at hand. Time flies this way. The sun slips entirely past the horizon and the suspended ropes of Edison bulbs illuminate the space and wash her in a sense of serenity. The reception tent is otherworldly with its soft glow and towering peony centerpieces. The scents of Tiana's amazing food wafts through the space as impeccably dressed guests mingle sipping signature cocktails designed by Eugene to honor the happy couple.

When the bridal party is announced, however, the calm is gone. She steps off to the side of the tent as he enters and tries not to watch him. When it is the bride and groom's turn and the guests applauds madly she can hardly hear it. Her mind is too busy creating strategy, grappling for control. She busies herself with going over the timeline she has committed to memory and making certain that the waitstaff know to serve the bride and groom first. She goes to the kitchen and make sure Tiana remembers that the courses need to be served at specific intervals for optimal experience.

If her herb crusted pheasants had not been a work of art, Elsa is fairly certain Tiana would have hurled one at her.

"I don't know what has gotten into that pretty head of yours," Tiana says while stirring a simmering pot of something that smells delicious. "But you better get it out and get yourself out of my kitchen till you remember which way is up."

Elsa knows she is right. Her internal compass is spinning as if someone holds a magnet next to her. She excuses herself with an apology and slips back out into the tent where she belongs. She needs to be watching over everything to ensure that there are no problems. She is not sure, however, what to do when the problem is herself.

She steers clear of the head table and all those sitting there. Instead she sends Anna, Rapunzel, and Eugene all in turn to make sure that everything is running smoothly. It is cowardly, she knows, but she also knows her limits. Perhaps the wink had been his way of saying he will not bother her anymore. She hopes - though she is uncertain for exactly what.

The dinner is served at perfect intervals. Elsa makes a mental note to apologize profusely to Tiana when this is all over. Elsa watches over the fringes as her team works seamlessly around her.

Sometimes in quiet moments like this amidst the storm of activity Anna will find her and they will laugh and bolster each other to make it through the rest of the long hours stretching ahead. Today though, Elsa avoids that. Anna knows her better than anyone. She will see the anxious thoughts,will push till Elsa gives a satisfactory answer, but Elsa does not want that. She does not want to acknowledge the affect this man - this virtual stranger - has over her.

After the meal is cleared and the toasts given the MC announces the first dance. The band strikes up a jazzy take on _The Way You Look Tonight_ and the singer's raspy voice croons out the melody and the bride and groom take the floor.

Elsa stands at the edge of the tent in the shadows. She watches Eric and Ariel from the deep folds of the tent wall with the same bittersweet taste in her mouth that she watches every happy couple. While she finds fulfillment and happiness in her family and work - she cannot help but feel that old familiar sting of never quite being just like everyone else.

Someone sidles up next to her in the shadows. She expects to find one of her team, perhaps Anna with a cup of food to force Elsa to eat because she always forgets to do that, but it isn't. It is Hans. He meets her attention with a grin like he is about to speak, but she does not want to hear it. She looks away, takes a step to the side, and hopes he gets the message.

He doesn't.

He follows her evasion with liquid ease. The sleeve of his tux jacket brushes her bare arm and she cannot cross her arms fast enough to pull them out of his proximity. She mentally reprimanded herself. Maybe he is one of those who _likes_ the chase and she is making it all too easy.

"Did you save a dance for me?" He does not have to raise his voice. The band is mellow and the crowd is hushed to watch the beautiful couple's first dance. Regardless she feel his voice like he shouted in her ear.

"It's not professional for me to dance at events I plan." It is a practiced answer she has given drunk event attendees for years, but Hans is not drunk. He is not even tipsy, but when he stands next to her like this her insides feel like she has been sipping one of Eugene's cocktails.

"No one here will mind. Trust me." He turns his body in towards hers but she stays facing forward, arms tight over her chest. "I am friends with the groom afterall."

"I -" she falters as he traces the tip of one finger along her bicep leaving sparks in its wake. "There are plenty of women here, including half a dozen bridesmaids, who would all love to dance with you." She looks everywhere but him.

"But I'm asking you." His voice rings with a sincerity that makes her mouth go dry. She tries to swallow the feeling away to no avail.

Her mind goes to what it could mean to dance with someone like this man. She does not think of money, or status, or power. She thinks of kindness, and curiosity, and heat. She thinks of feverish skin and strong arms. She thinks of eyes that see too much and a tongue so silver it could charm its way out of (or into) anything. She knows she needs to think of anything but.

Butterflies the size of pterodactyls beat in her stomach, her chest. His fingertip lingers in the crook of her elbow where her hand tucks so firmly. He will hold that hand if they dance and she idea of that simple gesture is enough to unhinge her. Panic, deep and fervent, rises in her throat.

"Don't." Is all she manages to choke out before she turns from him and walks as quickly as she can without attracting attention.

The event is running smoothly enough that she rationalizes her path to the door behind the bar. The night air is suddenly too hot, the tent too crowded, and she knows if she can just be alone for a few moment and clear her head she will be fine. She is always fine until she isn't, but today, right now, she is fine. She has been fine for three years, a span of time almost long enough for her to forget why she chooses to be alone. It is easier this way - for everyone.

Anyway she does not want to dance with him, or anyone for that matter.

He caught her in a sentimental moment. That is all. How couldn't someone feel something while watching Eric and Ariel dance together? Their love filled the tent as tangibly as the glow from the suspended strands of lights. The entire event is set up to be a romantic spectacle. It is enough to seduce even the most level headed of people into considering the world through rose-tinted glasses. She is fine.

She is totally fine.

She just needs a moment.

She cuts behind the bar to where the service door is propped open into the kitchen. She slips inside unnoticed.

She presses through the crowd of Tiana's crew and waitstaff doing a mental tally as she goes. It helps. The thrum of energy and effort does a lot to calm her nerves, but not quite enough. She needs to be alone to collect her thoughts.

She moves out of the kitchen into the desolate hallway. The glow of a light left on in the bride's room draws her like a moth to the flame. Her ballet flats are silent on the hardwood floor as she wraps her arms around herself to ward off the chill that only she feels.

When she enters the room she is impressed by the mess. The littering of clothes, cosmetics, and purses over every surface makes her itch to organize. It is what she needs. She always thinks best when she is sorting something, but first she goes to the window and unlatches it. It sticks a bit as pushes, but the window gives up and slides up without too much complaint. The late spring breeze carries the scent of roses and removes the lingering scent of perfume and hairspray. It is refreshing.

The sounds of the band wafts through the open window. It is faint, but she listens for it. She wants to hear it. The length of a song is the perfect interval to check on something and be back before anyone notices. It is just the right amount of time to regather her senses.

She closes compacts and lines them up along the vanity countertop. She folds clothes and puts them in a neat pile on the ottoman. She collects stray bobby pins and puts them in an empty soap dish. She zips up sprawling bags and purses and organizes on the floor and hooks according to size and color.

The process does not take her long, but still her pulse races.

Why is her pulse racing? Everything is going as smoothly as an event of this caliber can go. So why does she feel like her insides are melting?

She goes to the ornate, porcelain sink at the vanity and turns the tap on cold. She runs the thin skin of her wrists under the water for a minute before before moving cool, damp palms to the back of her neck. The action is refreshing, calming, and she breathes. She had forgotten to do that earlier. That must have been why she felt so piqued. She had forgotten to breathe. She must not forget that again.

Between the breathing and the running tap she almost misses the soft clapping of feet on the hallway floor. Almost. Her nerves prick in anticipation. She kills the tap before she turns to see the source of the noise. The instant she lays eyes on him she stops breathing again.

"What are you doing in here? The party is outside." She keeps it cool and professional though she feels anything but.

"I could ask you the same question." He approaches all hip-shot and bravado. His confidence is as effortless as it is annoying.

"I am just checking on a few things."

"Funny," he scans the tidied room as he continues to close the space between them. "Because it feels like you're avoiding me."

His toothy grin sets her on edge. She crosses her arms over her chest, mindful to tuck her damp wrists into her elbows.

"I know this may seem like a game to you - but some people take their jobs seriously and I am one of them."

"So seriously that you have to run away and hide because one guest wants to dance with you?"

"I am not running away! There are things here that need my attention. When you run an event of this size you do not have time for dancing. There are dozens of things that can go wrong -" he reaches out one hand and skims it around her waist. She had not realized he had gotten that close. The heat of it through the thin fabric of her shift takes her breath for an instant. "- and I can't be dancing during one of them."

She tries to retreat but her back presses into the hard edge of the vanity. She has nowhere to go.

"And yet you have spent more time telling me why you won't dance with me than it would have taken to let me just have one dance instead." He is even closer now, too close, and she looks down at his shoes just as his toes bump against hers.

His proximity is intoxicating. "It doesn't matter anyway. I don't dance."

"Everybody dances."

"I don't."

"Why not?"

"I just don't. Please. I'm working."

"Take a break."

His hand is burning her waist. She should slap it off. She should sue him for harassment (though she can only imagine how well suing a Westergaard would go in the end). She should run as fast as she could in the other direction. She should do a great many things, but she stays rooted in place.

Instead: "It would be unprofessional."

"We're well out of sight."

"You're a _Westergaard_."

"You say that like is a bad thing."

It is though. It no doubt is contributing to his persistence. He does not strike her as a man who is often refused, but she needs to be delicate. He is a guest of her employer and allowed respect accordingly.

Instead: "I did not, but it is a thing. We are very different people."

"Everyone is very different people. It keeps things interesting." His other hand slips along her side and settles on her hip.

Her eyes fly to his, only inches above hers. "You keep touching me."

"You're observant." He shifts closer.

Blood rushes to her cheeks, burning. "You shouldn't."

"Why not?" His hands move to drag up her arms, feather light and slow.

She fights to keep her breathing even. "I already told you. "

"No. You told me my family name, a few lame excuses and a boring platitude." His hands go back to her waist.

"Mister Westergaard -"

He cuts her off.

"Call me Hans."

He tugs her away from the fortification of the counter. She stumbles up against him, hands landing on his wide chest. She tries to right herself, to pull back, but his left hand spreads across the middle of her back with gentle tension and keeps her in place. His right hand finds hers at his lapel and wraps it in his own before drawing it to the side. He uses his left forearm to nudge the elbow of her free hand so it slides up to his shoulder. The entire time her eyes stay fixed on the wilting rose of his boutonniere and tries to remember to breathe.

"Mister Westergaard -"

"Hans."

She ignores it. "I have work -" she starts but he drops his head down by her ear and interrupts.

"Shhh… I love this song."

He pulls her that much closer. Their bodies do not touch other than where their hands press, but she can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves. She can smell the thick spice of cloves and cedar clinging to his tux, his skin. It make her head swim. Over the pounding of her heart she can hear the muted strains of _What a Wonderful World_ circling in the air as he pulls her along to begin a sedate waltz.

She should have known he can dance properly. People like the Westergaards always are trained in the more refined social graces, but the effortlessness with which he moves them around the hardwood floor of the bride's room catches her off guard. He keeps their steps small, not showy. The hand on her back stays firm, guiding her. She does not have to think. He does it all for her. The rhythmic motion of their steps is hypnotizing.

His breath ruffles the hair at her temple. She forgets to keep time. She almost forgets to breathe again, but forces herself to draw breath after breath. It is the only thing that keeps her calm, keeps her centered, as he draws her just that much closer.

His hand is dry and firm around hers. Aristocratic fingers, long and able, wrap hers in uncompromising confidence. It is the kind of arrogance of someone who has never been out-of-control, she realizes. She wonders what that would be like. What could it possibly be like to be so completely in control of one's own destiny?

She will never know.

Her body, her brain, had made sure of that.

The song slows to a stop and so do they, but he does not release her. She tries to step back, but his arms tighten.

"Stay." His voice is rough on the edges, and she knows that means trouble. She knows she should do anything _but_ stay, but he is so warm. She had never been so close to someone this warm, almost feverish, and she is drawn to it.

She stares at his chest paralyzed by indecision.

Another song starts. She is too distracted to pick out the melody as he pulls hands up around his neck. She lets them rest there as his hand settle low on her hips and they begin to sway.

It is nothing like the formal structure of the previous dance. The lack of refinement makes it more personal somehow and she should not allow it. She should pull away now, she knows. She has danced with him and his hold is not substantial. It will not be difficult. She can do it at any moment, and yet she stays. A foreign gravity keeps her close.

His jaw brushes her temple, his cheek against her cheek, as he drops his head down alongside hers. His breath lingers on the slim column of her neck. One of his hands slip up between her shoulder blades, spanning almost the entire breadth of her back, as he draws her against him.

Her eyes slide closed. Beads of perspiration gather along her hairline. She grips the firm line of his neck. She has never held someone like this, been held like this, before ever. It is terrifying, but she does not feel threatened. She feels safe, safer than she has felt in a long time but she cannot get her mind to work well enough to place how that can be.

There is no sense of time anymore. She cannot hear the music. The faint melodies are crushed beneath the weight of her breath, the thundering of her heart. She has no idea how long she stays in that room barely swaying in the embrace of a virtual stranger. It could have been instants. It may be lifetimes. All she knows is that the damage has already been done. She can feel her walls tumbling down like Jericho.

There is a crackle in her ear. Anna's voice buzzes along the intercom. "Drunk at table one harassing the bridesmaids. Kristoff - you on this?"

The electronic call is like ice water down her spine. What is she doing? She is supposed to be working! Instead she is knee deep in a mess of _feelings_ for a guest who is guaranteed bad news.

She blinks, breaking the spell, and steps back. Her arms drop from his shoulders but his stay fastened on her waist

"I have to go."

"Stay." He does not ask why. He probably heard Anna over the mic at any rate.

"I can't."

She tries to back up again but his hands tighten. "Please."

He will let her go if she wants. He is not that kind of guy, but still the idea of staying is one hundred times more frightening than the idea of going.

"I have to work." She is breathless though she shouldn't be.

He steps into her before she can pull back further, his fingers tightening on her hips.

"Dinner."

"Excuse me?"

"Dinner." He repeats, his breath is hot on her cheek. "With me. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" She cannot think with him so close and tries to pull back. He allows her a few inches. It is enough to bring his face into focus but not enough to escape his heat, his smell. He looks so earnest.

"Tomorrow." His hands are burning through her dress so hotly she expects to find scorched skin when she undresses later. "I will be a complete gentleman, the total opposite of how I am right now, I promise. I will have you home by ten and I will keep my hands to myself but I can already assure you that you will not make it easy."

He grins then and she feels her own smile bubbling up in return. She fights against it. She does not want to smile. She wants to get back to work. She wants him to leave her alone.

She puts her hands on his chest and pushes. He releases her, but does not retreat. She gains only a few inches before she is back against the unyielded edges of the vanity.

"I'm busy tomorrow." She tries to slow the rapid beat of her heart. "And every day after."

"Doing what?"

She does not meet his gaze. If she does she is sure he will be able to tell that all she has planned for tomorrow is what she has planned after any huge event: a long, hot shower and a QuickBooks marathon with a bottle chardonnay. He will not be able to see the real reason for her reticence lurking behind her eyes, growing and insidious.

"I run a company, Mister Westergaard. There is a lot of follow up after an event like this." She keeps her eyes on toes of his wing tipped shoes.

"I'll bring takeout to your office." He slips one hand back onto her waist and that gets her attention.

Her eyes shoot back up to his and she instantly regrets it. "You wouldn't."

"I would. What'll it be? Chinese? Italian? Sushi?" He is drawing her in again, pulling her off the comfortable fortress of the vanity, but she looks away and steps to the side this time and pushes past him.

"None of it. I am very flattered by the attention, but I'm not interested." She turns to face him. Somehow now with three feet of space between them and infinite room to retreat behind she feels much less safe than she did when he held her.

"Not interested in dinner or not interested in me?"

There is that tone again, that human, vulnerable tone. The tone that makes her think for just one second that this could possibly work. That feeling, that _hope_ , scares her. She does not have room for hope in her world, does not have room for anyone who may encourage that folly. The only thing that scares her more is the realization that she anything but uninterested in dinner and his company. She needs to get out of here. Now.

She all but runs from the room, through the hall, the kitchen, to the reception tent and does not dare look back.

….

She sees him a few minutes later when he reappears in the reception tent from their unscripted rendezvous. She tries not to notice him, but it is unavoidable. Besides the hair that flashes like a beacon in the night, he has that kind of presence that just draws attention. He spots her too and she knows this isn't over.

"Anna where are you?" she pages her sister over the mic.

"Table twelve. We have a champagne spill. I'm on it. You need me?"

Did she? She is a grown woman in a public place surrounded by people. Plus if she calls Anna over then Anna will want to know why and Elsa will have to explain about the everything and oh there is a bus she would rather step in front of. Or maybe the explanation is worth it because he is moving in towards her like a shark in the water, cutting lazily through the current of guests, and she is trapped.

She turns and starts towards table twelve and the protective buffer of her sister. She will find some work to do and everything will be fine. He will find someone else to chase and she will be fine. This night will end and everything will be fine.

She beelines towards table twelve, ignoring decorum to cut across the dance floor. She sees her Anna ten feet from her when a hand rests on her shoulder. She whirls, stepping back at the same time, and there he is. His face is less jovial this time. No. Now he looks at her as a man sorting out some sort of puzzle.

The dancing couples sway around them just as they had only minutes ago. The memory makes her ears heat. "You never answered my question."

She knows which question he means and her heart goes into overdrive. She is not as good of a liar as she would like to be in a situation like this because the truth is she is interested, but she cannot be. For oh so many reasons she cannot be for both their sakes.

"I'm working."

She turns but he catches her arm and brings her gaze back to his. His hold is gentle, but the touch puts her heart in a vice.

"I know what it feels like to want someone who doesn't want you back but I have the distinct impression that is not what is happening between us." He is close enough that she see the gold ring around his pupils, can see the copper shadow of his beard coming in along his jaw. "What's going on here?"

Her eyes dart around the crowd. Are they making a scene? She will die if they make a scene. "Nothing."

"You're avoiding this, avoiding me. Why?"

She feels the panic rising again. She is not used to this persistence, to her own response to his perusal. It is like someone else has slipped inside her skin and undone everything she has worked so hard to achieve, the distance she clings to in order to protect everyone she meets.

"I told you. I don't date."

"You don't dance either, but you did that beautifully."

She feels her cheeks flame at that. This whole thing is a mistake. She never should have allowed it to get this far.

"There is more to it - but please understand this a personal decision."

He cocks his head to the side and frowns a bit. She can see the questions mounting on his tongue but before he can formulate a response the blonde maid-of-honor appears at Elsa's side.

"Oh there you are!"

Hans drops Elsa's arm immediately, face pulling into austere lines as Andrina interrupts their conversation.

"No one can find Ariel's toss bouquet." The frantic blonde does not even try to pull a calm facade. "The toss is in ten minutes and Ariel asked me to be the one in charge of it but now it is nowhere to be found."

Her body surges with relief at the idea of being presented with a problem that she can fix. That is what she is here to do. She is here to work, not give her life story to a stranger who cannot take 'no' for an answer.

"Don't worry. We'll find it. Ariel never needs to know." She gives Andrina a reassuring smile and reaches out for her arm to lead the panicked woman off the dance floor. "Let's start in the kitchen."

She does not give him another look. She does not dare.

 


	4. Chapter 4

He leaves her alone after that and somehow that is worse. Somehow the fact that he never catches her glances or the way she can hear him laugh when she passes by but never so much as acknowledges her sets her off balance even more.

She has to convince herself that this is not some ploy, some sort of reverse psychology to get her to chase him instead.

He probably just realized that she is not worth the trouble, that there are plenty of other eligible young women who can actually give him what he wants, or might want, or - whatever

She has a headache.

For most humans the only thing that means is that they should drink some more water, take a pain reliever, and wait for the pain subside. She, however, is not most humans. Tonight though she will chalk it up to the late hour (it is three in the morning, after all) and the fact that on top of all of her other duties she has been battling with keeping her focus anywhere but where he lingers in her periphery. Her headache could just be from working twenty hours straight with four more to go.

It could.

It is what she chooses to believe. She does not have the space or strength to acknowledge her other option.

She focused beyond all that, needing every fiber of will power to stay on task for this final push.

Tiana and her crew are long gone as are the band that has been replaced by a mellow DJ. The bride and groom exited at midnight beneath a Technicolor display of fireworks The bar had been replaced with a boozy smoothie and doughnuts truck for those party goers who were still going strong but even that has packed up and left. The last of the guests mill about the tent, sit scattered between tables, as Elsa and crew finish tying up the final details.

Rentals have been organized for pickup.

The crew hired to dismantle the tent and get it offsite would arrive at six AM to make way for the next day's event.

Gifts and cards had already been catalogued, packed up, and shuttled to the specified location courtesy of Rapunzel and Eugene along with sentimental items including Ariel's dress.

Final checks had been provided to all vendors for their services.

The videographer and photographers left when the bride and groom had.

The leftover cake had been boxed and sent home with guests along with bottles of Dom Pérignon.

The florals are being donated to a local hospital and all but the centerpieces have been dismantled accordingly.

The list continues and Elsa's mind mechanically checks and rechecks the boxes. She has done this so many times it is like clockwork. She hardly has to think anymore when it comes to the operations side of things. At least she normally does not, but tonight she runs through the list again and again until she is dizzy from it. She allowed her focus to slip and now she pays the price.

He is among the chosen few that still huddle in groups, laughing and chatting. He has lost his tie and suit jacket, his hair is not quite as perfectly placed as it had been as he relaxes back in his chair across the way. He seems happy, fully engaged in whatever the giggly brunette next to him was saying, and she isn't jealous. She is glad, relieved in many ways, but there is a strange twinge of sadness that twists in unbidden in her chest. It is a funny kind of mourning for something that died before it has a chance to live and it is a feeling she knows all too well and she hates it.

She will not pity herself.

She will not give into grief for all the things she will never have.

She looks away and goes over her list again.

….

The last of the guests finally throw in the towel half an hour before the tent crew shows up. They have rooms here in the winery where they stumble to, laughing and smiling, and that is all Elsa needs. These days are long, grueling, and relentless but to see smiles on the faces of the guests is enough to let the stresses fall away to nothing.

That feeling is just enough of a boost to finish the last few tasks before she goes home and falls into bed for the next few hours.

The men start the process of unstringing lights as the women dismantle the centerpieces. They blow out the few candles left burning and start separating out the flowers into respective types for the donation. It is a large tent and there are so many tables that they spread out into sections, all exhausted and ready to be done, but working dutifully. She moves robotically just trying to get this all done as quickly as possible and does not hear him approach.

"Let me help you."

His voice catches her off guard and she squeaks. A thorn in the bunch of roses she is bundling stabs the soft skin of her palm and she drops the flowers to the table.

She had thought he had gone up with the others and maybe he had. Her head whips to the side to see him standing there, rumpled but eyes still bright, as she rubs the stinging place on her hand.

"I don't need help."

It is quick, a knee jerk response, and he tilts his head to look at where she is tending her sore spot.

"Looks like you might."

She forces her hands down and chin up. "Is there something you need, Mister Westergaard? Problems with your room?"

He looks at her like he hasn't quite figured her out but cannot wait to.

"If I didn't know better I'd think you were offering to come up with me," They both get the implication. "But I have the feeling that any kind of proposal of the sort would mortify you."

He is right. Her ears heat even at the thought, at the idea that anything she said could have been construed in a way that could give him an inch. He lets it go, however, and nods towards the hand she has clenched at her side.

"That okay? I could find a bandaid or something."

He is so sincere and she almost buys it.

"It's nothing," and it is. She is used to being poked and prodded. This is nothing new. "If there is nothing I can do to assist you -"

"I want to help you."

He cuts her off and she looks for the lie. She looks for the bravado, for the arrogance she knew came with this class. She looks for the price, but she doesn't find it. All she sees is the same earnest expression he gave when he helped her straighten the chair covers all those many hours before.

"I really don't -"

"Please."

And she wants to refuse. She wants to turn her back and return to her work and forget she had ever seen him before but she knows that is impossible. She knows that he will not relent until she gives in and what scares her more than anything is that she wants to. She wants to let him help. She wants to let him in, and that cannot happen.

She must keep her distance, but she knows he won't let her go far.

There is only a few hours longer, and then he will be gone for good and she won't have to worry about this again.

She can do this.

"Sort the flowers by type. If they are too wilted we trash them. Greenery gets sorted, too. Leave the piles on the table and we'll get them where they need to go." She keeps it simple, direct. "You can finish this table and I'll move to another. Feel free to stop at any time."

She doesn't mean that last sentence as much as she wants to, her heart beating into her ears till she can hardly hear.

"Sounds good, boss." He smiles and she hates how bright and wide it cuts across his face. He smiles like he doesn't have a care in the world, and she wonders what that is like.

She doesn't trust her voice, trust the words that might trip out of her mouth, so she gives a terse nod and turns on an aching heel. With trembling hands she begins to dismantle another centerpiece. She isn't sure if she can feel him staring or if that is just her exhausted paranoia. She can hardly get her mind to focus on the task at hand and she takes a deep breath.

Just a few more hours, maybe less, and he will be gone.

She doesn't know why that makes her feel so sad, but she chalks it up to exhaustion. It is easy to confuse feelings or feel things that you normally wouldn't when you are overwrought. She has seen this many times, felt it too, in all aspects of life.

You don't spend collective years of your life waiting on tests and scans and results, uncertainty ringing like an alarm in your head at all times, without knowing a thing or two about emotions creeping in where logic would better serve. She will sleep soon and the world will make more sense then. She will shower and wash every trace of his touch against her neck, his breath on her cheek, his scalding palm on her waist down the drain and forget she ever felt a thing.

She has done it before, and she will do it again.

She does not have time to feel sad for an impossibility. That road has never helped her before and she refuses to take it now, but she cannot ignore how close he is. She cannot pretend she does not notice him working in the periphery, and maintain her focus.

She grabs and armful of peonies and marches behind the bar. There are dozens of buckets set up waiting for the florals and she starts the unloading process. The rest of the crew have been creating piles on the bar according to type as instructed and this is the perfect place for her: secluded and protected behind the solid wood and marble of the outdoor bar.

She is busy assigning buckets to their floral counterparts when he approaches with an arm full of greens.

He drops them on the bar top across from her and shifts his weight. She nods in acknowledgement, hoping to keep him at a safe distance. He does not approach but he does not retreat either.

Not yet.

Not until: "I'm sorry if I came on too strong."

Her hands falter just for a moment. Of all the things she had expected - an apology is not one of them.

She shakes her head, not looking at him as she reaches for another pile. "Let's just forget it and move on."

He pauses before stepping away, not pressing the issue, and again that is unexpected. She does not try to deduce anything from it. Her mind too exhausted from running in circles to go any further down this spiral. Whatever game he may or may not be playing - she is done trying to determine the rules.

He is back before she has too much time to decide she isn't going to spend any more time thinking about him. This time he brings arms full of white roses and she remembers feels like a lifetime ago already.

"What if I don't want to forget it?"

Her mind blanks at his question, already moved on from her flippant statement and stuck firmly sixteen hours before.

"Excuse me?"

"You said we should just forget it, but what if I don't want to?" He shakes his head, looking the closest thing to flustered she has seen on him yet. Her heart skips when he brings her eyes back to hers. "I mean, I don't want to forget you or any part of this the time I spent with you. So what should I do about that?"

There is something deep, secret, and hidden in the way he asks - the way he looks at her. It strikes a familiar chord within her that she cannot place, does not want to try. She is too exhausted.

"I thought you were sorry for coming on too strong." She can only recycle his words, cannot dare come up with ones of her own, cannot begin to tell the truth and bare the look of pity or disgust that comes with it.

He huffs a smile.

"You're right. I am sorry. It is something I apologize for a lot - and not just where beautiful women are concerned."

She hums under her breath, a non-committal half answer in hopes to hide the fact that his flattery irks her. She is aware of her appearance. She knows that in many ways she is objectively beautiful which is why she takes measures to downplay it. She does not want to be noticed or appreciated and his attention only serves to show she has failed. She hates failure.

He leans into the bar, elbows resting dangerously close to the gardenias she is grabbing when he says:

"I may come on too strong, competitive nature - I guess, but I have to say you are possibly the most cagey and confusing and honestly the most frustrating human I have ever met."

And she can't ignore him then. Blue eyes flash to green to find them watching her with that locksmith precision that leaves her breathless.

"And despite all that I swear I have never wanted to get to know someone more than you."

His voice deepens to a whispered rush of air as if he is just as affected by her gaze as she is his.

She sucks in as much air as she can, chest rattling with effort, and she lies: "There is nothing to know. I'm just like any other girl."

He laughs out loud at that, a deep chuckle that brightens his eyes and softens his face an errant thought wonders what it would be like to rest in that expression, in his presence, instead of fighting.

"Not any girl I've met." He meets her blow for blow.

She fights back, is always fighting, is never allowed to stop fighting. "My work is my focus." The flowers she grabs are her punctuation. "Girls like me don't have time for distractions which is probably why you don't meet us."

He studies her a moment, head cocked to the side just so.

She pulls her focus, uncertain if she had just been too hard. He may have apologized but she won't. She drops a bunch of baby's breath into a bucket and reaches for more, trying to do anything but look at him. She already knows what she will see if she does: that seeking, searching human gaze that let's her in as much as it asks to be let in.

She sees him shift back off the bar and stand up straight.

"Okay," he says.

It catches her off guard. Everything about him catches her off guard.

"Okay?" She cannot stop the question in her voice, not sure what exactly she is agreeing to.

"Okay," he says. "I won't distract you."

She waits a breath for the catch, for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn't come.

"Okay," she replies before she can stop herself.

He looks back over his shoulder and shoves hands into his tux pants pockets. "My table is done. Anything else you want me to do, boss?"

The way he says 'boss' really makes her feel like he means it, like he takes this seriously - her seriously, and she appreciates that. She wishes she didn't appreciate that.

She straightens and meets his eyes. His hair is a mess, shirt and pants wrinkled. His vest, jacket, and bow tie are long gone. There is something young, hopeful in the way he looks at her. He looks like someone who has time to live his life and while she envies him she also respects that her journey is hers alone. In a day's time he will have forgotten her and go on without a second thought. She will go back to her work as long as she is able. It will all be as it should be.

So she gives him a soft smile of understanding, nods her head, and says, "That will be all, Mister Westergaard."

He gives her a cocked smile in return, kicking his shoe against the dance floor Kristoff and Sven are dismantling for pick up. "It's Hans."

He doesn't give her a chance to respond as he walks away, whistling as he goes.

It is only a few moments later she realizes the tune he chose.

 _What a Wonderful World_ sticks in her mind for the rest of the job.


	5. Chapter 5

Her alarm goes off after three hours of sleep and she can hardly move enough to turn it off. Sun peeks in around the edges of her curtains. She needs to get up and go about her day and force herself back into a regular rhythm. Normally she is quite good at it but this time it seems impossible. 

It isn't that she is unused to this routine. After a thirty hour event she often takes a long nap to reset her mind and push her through to the next night and a normal bedtime. While never easy she is typically able to roll out of bed in her studio apartment and get started on whatever task is at the top of her list, but today….

She swings her feet over the edge and sits up, head swimming, and she can feel every inch of her body. She knows if she stretches her spine will snap, muscles releasing, but she can hardly find the energy. She tilts her head side to side, neck cracking, and there is laundry to do. There is laundry to do and errands to run. There is laundry to do and errands to run and things to return and clean and this is her only day off this week and she has so much to catch up on and -

She can feel it. 

When she is more awake, more lucid, she can convince herself that she is making things up. She tells herself that whatever symptoms she thinks she is having is just stress, exhaustion, dehydration…. But here in that funny place between being asleep and awake she knows. 

This is not just something she is imagining. 

She bends over her bedside trashcan and vomits.

When she is done she wipes her eyes and mouth with a tissue. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

She has today. 

She will take it. 

Sleep is for the dead, and she isn't there yet. 

She stands up and starts her day by cleaning her mess.

….

Dinner that night is at Anna and Kristoff's modest home. The team gathers around takeout and discusses the event, what went well, what didn't, where improvements can be made, and how they can grow. It is informal, less structured than Elsa likes, but she knows that the community of her team is just as important as the efficiency especially considering this is supposed to be their day off. Also none of them brought up Hans Westergaard for which she would be eternally grateful. 

They are past the business point of the evening now. Elsa is in the kitchen putting dishes in the washer as Anna and Kristoff split the leftovers into plastic containers for everyone to take home. Rapunzel and Eugene always take home whatever anyone else doesn't want because Rapunzel will eat anything. The rest goes in the Bjorgman’s fridge to share later. Anna always saves aside a portion of something sweet for her sister, but she doesn’t need much. 

She isn’t ever that hungry. Even less so recently. 

By the time it is all said and done it is just the three of them: Anna, Kristoff, and Elsa. 

She remembers when Kristoff had first come on the scene, how she had been unimpressed but quickly won over by his devotion to her sister. Now she can hardly picture Anna without Kristoff by her side and for that she is thankful. Anna thrives when she has someone steady beside her. Kristoff is definitely steady.

They stand around the kitchen island cleaning up the last of the mess and Kristoff grabs a leash and harness off a hook on a nearby wall. 

“You ladies seem to have this under control. Sven needs his walk.” He clasps the contraption onto a mutt big enough to be a horse. “We’ll be back soon.”

He is off before there can be any discussion and Elsa gets that tingling feeling down her spine that this was not a spontaneous idea on Kristoff's part, no matter how much he loves the gigantic Sven. She pauses wiping the counter to see Anna all too diligently avoiding her gaze. 

This has happened enough that Elsa knows it is best to just get to the point. It is almost always the same point anyway, but this time she does not feel as prepared. 

“All right. What is it?” She pops a hip and lands her hand upon it. 

“What is what?” Anna straightens a towel on the oven handle for the thirtieth time. 

“Whatever it is you aren't saying. That’s what.” Elsa steels herself, ready to deflect any foolish accusation Anna might throw her way - especially if it had to do with one particular groomsman.

Anna bites her lip, still not meeting her sister's eyes, and Elsa knows now what is coming. She wishes she hadn’t asked, but now:

“It's happening. Isn't it?”

Anna’s voice is small, as if she can hide the question while asking, but it hits Elsa like a freight train. She remembers the look on Anna's face after they had changed yesterday, remembers the look in her eyes as she had tested the waters of this conversation. How long has she suspected…? 

Elsa doesn't want to lie but she is also not ready to admit the truth. Anna has bared her fair share of Elsa’s troubles. Elsa does not want to burden her with more than she needs to carry now.

“Anna. If there was something to know - you will be the first to know it.”

Anna looks at her then, blue eyes sharp and clear. “What are your symptoms?”

She thinks of the headaches, the vomit this morning, and tells a bald-faced lie: “I’m not having any.”

Anna's eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

“It is my body. I am pretty sure I would know. This isn't exactly my first go at this.”

“Yeah, but… this time is different."

Elsa sighs. Her sister sound so bleak and she supposed she understands. The situation is grim at best, but it is all she has known. It is all she will ever know. She supposes it is all Anna will ever know of her sister as well. That thought stings. She will do her best to protect Anna as long as she can.

"What was it that mom said? Today has enough trouble. Don’t take tomorrow’s.”

Anna doesn’t smile, not distracted by Elsa’s attempt.

"But you will tell me, right? You will tell me when it is today?”

Elsa is good at lying. She has to be, but Anna is the hardest one to fool. She puts on her best poker face and meets her sister's eyes. 

"I will tell you."

Anna smiles. 

Elsa has to decide if it if fake or not and suddenly the tables are turned.

They don’t mention it again when Anna drives her home.

….

She sleeps through her alarm.

In all of her adult life that has only ever happened once and it was from a power failure and the alarm itself didn’t go off.

She pops up ten minutes after she is already supposed to be at work to her phone buzzing with text messages from Anna, Rapunzel, Kristoff, Eugene….

And they probably all think she is dead. She can’t blame them, but she also doesn’t have a single second to waste in replying to their messages. 

She also hardly has time to register that today, as opposed to yesterday, she feels fine. She has no nausea, no headache - nothing. 

Her symptoms could have just been fatigue and stress from the wedding. There is no way to know for sure, but she really doesn’t have time to think about it.

The days that actually count against her are so far and few between at this point that she just moves forward. Elsa does not like dramatics and she will not indulge in them.

The weather, however, has a different idea. 

The world outside her window is a deluge. Everything outside of her window is gray and bleak, but that happens. She has a plan for it. Her umbrella sits in its proper place by her door in its own small stand. She will be fine.

There is no time for breakfast which is fine because she usually skips it anyway. She grabs a granola bar just in case and will get her coffee at the office.

She does her hair and makeup in a flurry (a low braided bun with just enough mascara and blush to pop her features) because there are no meetings today (which is good because if she was late to a meeting with a client - she shudders). All she has to do today is show up and answer questions (hopefully through email) but she would deal with it either way. She opts for a shapeless navy blue dress that hits just below her knee to combat dealing with a wet hem all day and secures her locket in place around her neck.

The beauty of her job and living space is that it is only three blocks from each other.

She always walks.

No matter the weather.

But right now, when she is running late, she sure wishes it was only one block. Or maybe she could convert her office to her bedroom. She is there enough.

She puts on her trusty rain boots as thunder crashes outside.

It will be a soggy walk but she has done it before. She will do it again and again and again for as long as she is able.

When she isn’t so rushed she feels lucky to be able to walk to work since she cannot drive. Whenever she needs to meet a client she catches a cab or (depending on the client) orders a car service. More often than not Anna picks her up and takes her where they need to go. It keeps things simple. She likes the predictability of it all, the reliability. It makes everything else that much more manageable. 

She grabs her purse and stuffs a pair of sensible flats in to change into once she reaches the office. Then with her lunchbox and umbrella in tow she dashes out into the hallway. When she gets outside she pops up her black umbrella and starts down the sidewalk at as brisk a pace as her boots will allow.

It is gusty. She hadn’t realized, but about half way in to her walk a strong swoop of wind catches her umbrella and pulls. Elsa does her best to fight it while juggling her purse and lunch and trying to down a granola bar and respond to the distressed texts and calls to let them know she is on her way but it is a losing battle. 

The umbrella flips inside out just as the rain picks up from torrential to basically a waterfall. It takes all of five seconds before she is soaked to the bone. Unfortunately it takes about ten seconds to fix her traitorous umbrella so by the time she gets herself sorted it is rather a moot point. 

If she wasn't already nearly half an hour late she would turn back around and change, but she will just have to make due at this point. From the outpouring of texts from her family and colleagues she does not have time to do anything but show up. 

So with rain dripping down her nose, pooling in her boots, and making her shift dress cling to her skin she finally makes it to the steps of E&A Events. It is a modest brick building that shares a foyer with several other local businesses. In the heart of the city it is a sleek mix of chrome and brick that has been arranged in a way that is both modern and welcoming. She bee lines to the frosted glass door with their logo etched into it and slogs inside soaked and humiliated.

She is met by a frantic, yet enthusiastic, Rapunzel. 

“Elsa! Hi! Let me take your umbrella.” The springy brunette grabs the handle right from Elsa’s hand. Elsa blinks - stunned. Even for Rapunzel this greeting is over the top. 

She bends to pull off her water-logged boots as Rapunzel shakes her traitorous umbrella onto the hardwood entry hall floor. 

“Pascal’s gonna be living in this hall mopping up messes if this rain doesn’t stop.” Rapunzel laughed. “It’s a miracle Mister Westergaard didn’t slip and crack his head open the second he came in. You didn’t update the calendar so I didn’t know he was coming and -”

Elsa nearly loses her balance as she pulls off her second boot, the last shred of her dignity saved only by the thought that there are thirteen possible opportunities for who it could be other than the one she dreads the most. 

“Mister Westergaard?” Her stomach flips back and forth, but she manages to keep her tone even. “He was here?”

Rapunzel rolled her eyes. “Not was. Is here. What? Did you forget about your appointment?”

Elsa stares at Rapunzel for a long moment, mind not computing what she is being told. Surely Rapunzel is not telling her that Hans Westergaard is there, in their office, at that very moment except the look on Rapunzel’s face says that is exactly what is being said. Elsa almost runs back out in the rain, but instead she rolls back her shoulders and places her boots neatly by the door. No one needs to know how fast her mind is racing beneath her professional exterior.

“I must have gotten my days mixed up.” She buys herself a bit of time as she presses a soaked tendril behind one ear. “Has he been waiting long?”

Rapunzel looks at her watch. “Twenty two minutes.” 

Elsa groans inwardly. “Who is with him?”

“Well it was me and Eugene - but then Anna and Kristoff got here and they took over. Hans is really insistent about talking to you specifically.”

And although Elsa has never breathed a word about anything that happened that night to anyone - not even Anna - she knows that everyone knows at least the bare bones of the situation. Her cheeks heat. 

If she had ever suspected he actually would show up at her office she never would have -

“I need to talk to Anna.”

“But she’s with -”

“Yes. I know.” Elsa cuts in. “Could you please go in and tell her she has an urgent call that she needs to take in private?”

A wash of understanding floods Rapunzel’s face. She nods, razored bob slashing across her cheeks at the motion. 

“Yes. Yeah. Okay. Got it.” She puts Elsa’s traitorous umbrella in the stand and gives her a thumbs up. “I got this.”

Elsa forces a smile, too distracted to even consider mustering a real one, and watches as Rapunzel goes to the wide frosted double doors that lead to the client meeting room. She tucks herself into the shadowed corner as Rapunzel goes in and waits there until she and Anna return a moment later. 

“There you are! I’ve been texting you!” Anna says as she reaches out to hug Elsa but stops when she touches her shoulders. “And you’re soaked. What happened?”

“It’s been a long morning.”

“It’s only 9:30.”

“Still.” She does not need to say more. Elsa knows Anna understands in the way she does not press the matter. 

Instead she skips forward. “Hans Westergaard is here.”

“So Rapunzel said.” She keeps her voice even “What does he want?”

“Well…” Anna spreads her hands in front of herself. “I don’t really know? An event of some kind to be sure, but he is not exactly forthcoming. He says he wants to talk to you about it first.”

Elsa’s mind goes a thousand directions.

“But - I don't have a vision board.” She can hardly think over the pounding of her heart. “I - I haven’t had time to put together an intake package and what about the Clemmons wedding? I don’t know how we could possibly take on another project when - he has to go. There is just no way - ”

Anna catches Elsa’s emphatic hands in her and cuts her off with a worried stare.

“Okay. Slow down. Elsa - what exactly is going on here?”

Elsa feels her defenses rising in the midst of her unprofessional behavior. “I just think we should think twice before even considering taking this on. It could be beyond our capability, our scope. And if we can’t meet and exceed expectations then think of the liabilities.”

Anna’s face scrunches. “I think what you meant to say there is that this is the break we have been working for! It could mean the biggest leap of clientele in the history of our lives with one event. Elsa - this is the  _ Westergaards _ . We may as well plan something for the governor - or the president - but they don’t have nearly as much money.”

Elsa knows Anna is right but she cannot stop the riot rhythm of her heart at the idea of spending any kind of extended period of time working with Hans Westergaard. She thinks of all the meetings, the phone calls, the shopping trips and vendor consults that they would complete side-by-side as she did with all her clients. She thinks of the intimacy that accompanies her role guiding people through the planning process and seeing their tastes and preferences under a magnifying glass. She cannot do that with him. She will not. It will break her.

“Anna.” Her head throbs. She struggles for a way to put what she feels into words without saying too much. “This just isn’t going to work.”

Anna releases Elsa’s hands to grip her shoulders, fabric squelching under her fingers, face softening as she picks up on her sister’s distress. “You’ve gotta help me understand this one sis. Did something happen at the wedding that you aren’t telling me?” 

Elsa is in a corner and she knows it. If there is even a chance of getting Anna in that corner with her she is going to have to come clean. She looks down and presses clenched fists to her eyes.

“He asked me out.”

Anna is quiet for a long moment and Elsa is not sure if she heard her, but she will be damned if she repeats herself.

Then, tentatively: “You have been asked out before…?”

Anna phrases it as a question even though she knows the answer. Elsa has been asked out, but it had been a non-issue. She had never had difficulty turning away the attention of men who were often all too happy to move on to the next thing that caught their eye when they realized she was not worth the effort. Never, however, had she been so relentlessly pursued by someone she finds so frustrating and attractive in equal measure. Never has it come at such an inopportune time.

“Not like this.” Elsa replies.

“Oh - oh - !” This time Anna is all too quick to respond and Elsa rips her hands from her eyes and glares at her sister.

“No. Don’t.” She will not have her weakness spoken aloud. 

“But Elsa -” 

“Stop.” 

“Did you say ‘yes’?” 

“ _ Anna _ .”

“Oh crap - you did. Didn’t you? Or you didn’t but you wanted to?”

“What I don’t want to do is talk about it.”

“Elsa.”

“Anna.”

“Elsa. This is Hans  _ Westergaard _ . Do I need to remind you again what that means?” Anna’s eyebrow quirks.

“I  _ know _ what it means.”

 Anna purses her lips. “Look. I’m going to be you for a second, because I think you need it and I don’t want to seem mean but you’re talking crazy.” 

Anna pauses for a second to gather her thoughts, takes a deep breath, and then launches her attack.

“We need this, Elsa. Everyone at E&A Events needs this to happen so you are going to have to suck it up and put on your big girl pants because  _ we _ need this. Not you,  _ we.  _ This company is more than you and we need you to not screw this one up, okay? We need you to be calm and collected and professional and to do this event no matter how much it twists your personal panties, okay?” 

Elsa blinks, mascara smearing into her eyes and stinging but that burn is nothing compared to Anna’s words. She is normally the rational one, her business sense always winning out, and a taste of her own medicine is bitter. Anna is right. If Elsa truly wants to set up E&A Events for long lasting success then she has to approach this the same as she would any other client. 

Elsa takes a shaky breath.

Anna rubs the clammy skin on Elsa’s arms, as close to a hug as they can get with Elsa soaked the way she is.

“Remember when we started this business you said you wanted to live a normal life as long as you were able?”

It is an odd question, one Elsa had not anticipated, and she frowns. There had been so many discussions over the years. Each one had hinged on the fact that Elsa was not like the rest of them. Each one had tried to navigate the careful balance of the inevitable and the ignoring of it. The application of these conversations and plans however had never made her heart pound in her chest like she had just sprinted a mile. 

Elsa shakes her head.

“You’re right,” she holds her hands up in surrender. “You know you’re right. Of course you’re right. Mister Westergaard is just like any other client.” 

Anna casts her sister a knowing look. “That is not what I meant and you know it.” 

Except Elsa didn’t. She blinks, wide eyed and confused. 

“Elsa. If you want to date the guy, just date him. Dating doesn’t have to mean getting attached. It can just be fun. That is what normal people do. Normal people have fun.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Plus he is loaded so you know he can probably take you on some pretty amazing dates.”

Elsa’s defenses fly up. “Not going to happen.”

“But you know it would be okay if it did.” Anna goes soft in almost perfect opposition to Elsa’s rigidity. “All I’m saying is we all only get one shot at this life thing. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow or Kristoff could get struck by lightning. I get that you are trying to protect yourself and whoever else might come along but don’t you think that maybe you’re just hurting yourself more by not even trying?”

The words hit Elsa like a fist to the chest.

She is absolutely dizzy with them. 

Of all the ways she thought this Monday would go.

She bears down.

“We’re doing this.” 

She pushes past a surprised Anna and heads to the doors to where Hans Westergaard is waiting. If he is going to lay down a challenge she will be damned if she shrinks down from it. 

She will meet him just as she is, streaming mascara, skin soaked dress hot mess, and she will not back down.

She cannot.

She pushes past her sister towards those ominous frosted doors knowing that she looks a mess and accepting every bit of it. There may have been objections, but with the way Anna put it she knows that this is something she must face. 

This isn’t about dating or a relationship.

This isn’t about love.

Hans Westergaard has the nerve to come to into her territory then it can only be one this.

This is war.

 


End file.
